


Five Times Courfeyrac Took Jehan's Breath Away

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Courfeyrac - Freeform, M/M, and excessively using conjunctions, and he is cute, and loves metaphors, and run on sentences, cute jehan, jehan - Freeform, jehan and courfeyrac, jehan and courfeyrac fluff, jehan loves courfeyrac so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is pretty self-explanatory. Almost 2000 words of pure fluff and Courfeyrac adoration and Jehan being the cutest thing to ever exist</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Courfeyrac Took Jehan's Breath Away

**Author's Note:**

> ok so??? I tried to make my sentence structure really loose and full of run on sentences so I could kind of capture Jehan’s childlike wonder and the way his mind jumbles when it comes to Courf so I hope you enjoy and don’t get too annoyed by my polysyndeton

1\. It’s my 13th birthday and my best friends are here and I am the happiest in the world. We’re playing tag and I’m running and laughing and tripping over my disproportionate 13-year-old limbs and I know that tag is for kids and that I’m technically a teenager now but I don’t care. Combeferre is 15 and he’s playing so I think it’s okay. I’m hiding behind a tree and it’s one of the ones with the long swishy whips for branches. A willow, I think. I’ve never been very good at tag ‘cause we always play outside and I find nature very distracting and my friends tend to take advantage of that. I’m nervous and giggly under the umbrella that is the big tree with the long swishy whips for branches and I think that nothing could be better than the silken grass under my bare feet and the tiny slivers of golden sunlight poking through and warming my skin. I see a butterfly resting on a little green leaf and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I’m thinking that I have never seen anything that holds as much wonder and as much magic as this tiny butterfly and I’ve already given her a name (Ophelia) when the long swishy whips are parted and I see Courfeyrac’s freckled nose and I know I’ve been found out but I don’t care because it’s Courfeyrac. He draws his head closer to mine and my breath gets caught in my throat but I don’t know why.  
2\. It’s the middle of January and it’s below freezing and snow’s piling up on the dirty roads but suddenly it’s spring when he walks in. He’s the feeling you get when you’re sat in front of the fire on a rainy night and he’s the look you get in your eyes when the stars come out and he’s the boy in the fairy tales that your parents used to read to you, except better. I could compare him to a summer’s day but I think Shakespeare got there first and I prefer autumn, anyway. I could talk about the constellations in his eyes and the color of his aura (gold) but there are no metaphors for him. I thought, before, that there were metaphors for everything but nothing I come up with seems to do him justice. Despite this, I still use metaphors to describe him because metaphors are my life and I am weak and although he’s much more perfect than the feeling you get when you put on a hoodie straight out of the dryer he’s pretty damn close. I didn’t think I could love anything more than figurative language but then I met him and everything changed but I think I’m okay with that. I think. He’s there and he’s perfect and I know he’s too perfect for me and I know he would never say so, but I know. And I know I’m the biggest idiot in the entirety of Paris and most likely France and probably the world but I can’t help it. There was a time when my mind was taken by quatrains and flowery words but now it’s been taken by a flowery boy with curly hair that’s as dark as the sky on a night with no stars. Of course, the stars are in his eyes so they haven’t gone too far. I know I said no metaphors could paint him as he deserves to be painted but metaphors are all I know. I’m sitting at the bar and I’ve already written half a sonnet in my head when he comes over and he sits next to me but the stool is too far away so he pushes it closer to me and my breath catches.  
3\. It’s our first Christmas together and we’re both poor college students so we can’t afford to do much but we don’t care because we’re in love. I like to watch the sun rise in the morning but I don’t wake him up because he sleeps like a corpse and I like to see his face in its purest form more than I like to watch the sun appear in the hazy morning sky. I somehow convince myself to tear my eyes away, knowing that he will be there when I come back and that the sun only shows its sleepy face once a day. With my tea in hand I climb out to our little balcony and I sit carefully and I look up and the sun is poking out of its hiding spot and I am content. Almost. The pink that has appeared in the sky is not quite as lovely as the pink that has been known to grace Courfeyrac’s cheeks when I recite him my poetry or kiss his forehead but it’s an alright substitute. I can see my icy breath in the air and I clutch my mug tighter and I wish for the warmth that is his breath on my neck. The colors in the sky twist together and create a painting of a sunrise whose radiance can only be rivaled by the boy sleeping in my bed. I’m thinking about how Monet captured the essence of nature with nothing more than a paintbrush and I’m wishing desperately that I could capture the essence of him one day when a soft and sleepy “Happy Christmas” wakes me from my stupor and even though his morning voice is no longer new to me my palms get sweaty and my heart stops and my breath falters.  
4\. It’s the day he gets back. He offered to take me with him of course (I blushed a lot even though we’ve been dating for almost a year and I should have broken that habit by now) but I had finals and his were over and he needed to see his family. So every day for the past two weeks I have been drinking a lot of tea and writing a lot of poetry and doing a lot of half-assed studying. But today was my last exam and I’m here at the airport and I’m writing a poem in my notebook (it’s not a fucking diary, Enjolras) and I know it’s not a very good one and my handwriting is messy because my hands are shaking but I don’t care because I’m very excited to see his face and run my hands through his hair. For two weeks I have not felt the electricity that runs through his veins or heard the euphony of his laughter and I would fear for my sanity if this were to continue. I’m scribbling furiously in my notebook and I don’t think I would have been able to stop if my pen had not ripped a hole in the paper. I hear a hoarse and delicate chuckle from above my chair and I worry that if I look up I will be blinded by the sun but I don’t care because I think being blinded by Courfeyrac would be something to brag about. I control my breathing for once. I rise from my chair and I look at him and I’m blinded (as I suspected) but I would not have it any other way. “Hi. I missed you,” he says and his lips twitch up and his eyes crinkle and I am not able to form words so I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in the crook of his neck and I am finally home. Words finally return to me and I breathe into his chest, “I missed you more.” He pulls away slightly and for a split second my heart sinks until he pulls my chapped lips to his soft ones and he tastes like what daisies smell like and the familiar feeling causes my breath to stick in my throat.  
5\. It’s sunny and radiant outside and the weather mirrors how I feel because the daisies are blooming and that reminds me of him. Of course, he is currently holding my hand so the daisies are an inadequate substitute when the real thing is walking right next to me, but they’re still pretty and I like pretty things. He holds my hand tighter and it’s too good to be true and for a second I wonder if my life is a movie (is this how Julia Roberts felt in Pretty Woman?) but I’d like to believe that this is real. His hand that is dusted with freckles and slightly calloused (from playing the guitar) feels real in mine and that’s all that matters. I’m busy thinking about his fingers that seem to so perfectly envelop mine when I am jolted back to reality. “What are you thinking about? Your nose is doing that scrunchy thing,” he says and giggles and I can’t help but blush because I didn’t realize I was being obvious. Seeing the color in my cheeks he stops and says, “Don’t worry. It’s cute. But I want to know what’s making your nose do the scrunchy thing.” The words I want to say kind of get lost inside me and I end up saying, “What did you think of Julia Roberts’ performance in Pretty Woman? I was just thinking about it and I think it’s such an underrated movie. I mean obviously the premise is totally unrealistic and cliché but I think Richard Gere really makes it believable and it’s one of those movies that just makes you feel good you know –” but I’m interrupted (thankfully) by his melodic laughter and I soon join in. “God you’re cute,” he says and he smiles and his eyes do the crinkle thing that I like, “I love you.” I know it’s not the first time he’s said it but every time he does I get this feeling that I’ve just jumped out of an airplane and my parachute isn’t opening but it’s the best feeling and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. And my breath falters again.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU AND I HOPE I WASN'T TOO ANNOYING


End file.
